You Got It
by starbuckmeggie
Summary: The musings of a new parent in the middle of the night. Josh/Donna. Post series.


I've been half asleep, half listening to the monitor for about half an hour now. I tried going back to sleep for real because, let's face it, sleep is a precious commodity around here, but without any real success. It's not that I don't trust my husband with the baby—I truly, truly do—it's just that we like to be available to each other as much as possible for these sorts of things.

We're both still new to this.

I sigh and turn over, grabbing his pillow to bury my face. Sometimes his smell gives me comfort and helps me relax, but apparently not tonight. Then again, I've given myself about five seconds to relax and fall asleep, and when it doesn't happen immediately, I sigh in frustration.

Seriously, the fact that I can't manage to sleep at the drop of a hat at this point is absolutely ridiculous. Obviously, Josh is doing fine with the baby, and it's not like she's even being fussy. I'm guessing she just doesn't want to sleep.

I sit up and all but hold my breath, focusing in on the one-sided conversation coming in over the monitor. Not surprisingly, Josh seems to be imparting a lifetime of wisdom upon our infant daughter, and if she's anything like either of her parents, she's busy soaking it all in. Talking politics has never been a way to get either of us to sleep, I don't know why he'd think this would do it for her.

Since I'm awake, though, I might as well document it. Early on in the pregnancy, we bought a couple of nice cameras—one for photographs, one for movies—because we were both in agreement on one thing. We wanted to record as much of the baby's life as possible. Hopefully not to the point that we miss out on anything being too busy trying to find ways to remember it, but we want to be able to show her some day, and hope that she'll always know just how loved and wanted she is.

I nearly tumble out of bed and almost crash into the nightstand in my quest to find the video camera. I manage not to break anything, though I'm sure he's aware that I'm awake. I pause for a moment, listening to the monitor again to make sure I haven't missed anything, but all I can hear now is humming. I power up the camera as I stagger out of our room and the few feet to the nursery. The door is open and the tiny lamp on the corner of her dresser is on, casting a dim light over my small family. Josh sits in the rocking chair, staring down at our daughter as if she holds the answers to the universe in her tiny, delicate hands.

I wouldn't be surprised if she does. She's already managed to put so many things into place for us that it wouldn't shock me in the slightest if she could unravel the mysteries of the universe to us.

For his part, Josh doesn't even acknowledge me, and it's definitely possible that he doesn't know I'm here. The less practical gift my daughter has given me is a weakened bladder, and I've done a lot more jumping up and running to the bathroom in the middle of the night than I've ever done before, excluding the pregnancy.

He's still humming quietly, words slipping out here and there, a tune I recognize by can't yet place. I point the camera at them and press record regardless. If she ever decides to get married, this will be something we all cry about as we try to help her transition into that new part of her life.

My heart clenches and I shudder. I cannot handle the thought of my tiny, barely three-month-old daughter being an adult. I can't. I've barely gotten used to being a mother; the thought of her going off on her own kills me. It's way too soon to even consider it. As much as she needs me right now, I need her more. I'll always need her more.

"Every time I look into your lovely eyes, I see a look that money just can't buy."

I reel my thoughts in, dragging my focus from the already-too-soon day my daughter leaves me back to the fleeting present. I have to take this whole motherhood thing one day at a time—that's the only way I'm going to be able to handle the absolute heartbreak that seems to come along with it.

"One look from you, I drift away. I pray that you are here to stay."

I can feel myself melting. Granted, my emotions are still way out of whack from being pregnant and all that, but Josh has just about always had that affect on me. The fact that he's singing to his daughter makes me feel like I could crumble to the floor and never get up. It's not even the first time he's sung to her; he does it often. I think it soothes them both. And contrary to popular belief, Josh kind of likes to sing. Not enough to get up in front of a crowd and do it, at least not without a healthy dose of liquid courage beforehand. Certainly the two of us combined aren't able to find the right key or note even if we both had all the time in the world and there was a spotlight shining on it with neon signs pointing the way, but we always do silly things like singing in the car. We have wonderful duets—sometimes quartets if we're feeling ambitious and think the two of us can somehow handle Bohemian Rhapsody. It's not like we're doing it for money—neither of us have much shame in that department, and it keeps us entertained on long car rides. Occasionally, it's entertained—or horrified, I'm not always sure—the President and First Lady, but we usually keep the car concerts to ourselves.

But when he sings to our baby, there's not a sound in the world more beautiful.

"Anything you want, you got it."

He sang that to my belly constantly for almost forty weeks. One would think a hormonal pregnant woman would have eventually kicked him in the face, as sweet as he was trying to be, but there was something about the earnestness in his expression, the pure, unadulterated love I could hear, that stopped me from ever lashing out. How could I when it meant so much to him? There was no way he could be a part of the pregnancy the way I was, no matter how involved he was, and he was involved. He never missed an appointment, never balked at any of the natural but often gross things I did during pregnancy, he's wanted this from the get-go. He hadn't really planned on being a father, not before us, but he's wanted nothing more than to be a dad since we started talking about the possibility of having kids. Talking and singing to the fetus was his way of trying to forge that bond. It could have just been a coincidence, but it seemed to calm her down when she was pummeling my insides, squirming and stretching and kicking and in general being a tiny jerk.

I bite my lip to keep my tears and sniffles at bay, knowing the camera will wind up picking up on that more than anything else, and I desperately want to keep this moment forever.

Josh continues to rock the chair gently, seemingly oblivious to anything that isn't our tiny pink bundle of terror and joy. He never cares how much she screams or cries. He has endless patience with her, patience I never would have expected, knowing him the way I do and how prone he is to going off the deep end after one too many cups of coffee or when someone asks him a question he doesn't feel like answering. He takes it in stride, and it amazes me every day. We _are_ both doing this without a net, and it doesn't matter how many books we read or classes we took or unsolicited advice we received, nothing prepared us for parenthood. I just sort of figured he'd lapse into catatonic schizophrenia at some point, unable to handle, at least for a brief period, the demands of having a baby. Demands that, somehow, considering that she only weighs about ten pounds, that manage to far outweigh the most hectic day and busiest scandal in the White House.

But…nope. Josh has morphed into Super Dad, and I truly wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to take time off to be a stay-at-home-dad. We haven't discussed all of those options completely as I've been able to mostly keep her with me on my partial days at work lately, but I know at some point we'll have to decide on full-time daycare, or one of us staying home.

"I live my life to be with you. No one can do the things you do."

I shake my head and shuffle carefully into the room, maneuvering around to the other side of the rocking chair and planting myself on the footstool that came with it, focusing the camera on their faces as he sings. When the time comes for the discussion about childcare, I'm pretty sure it's not going to really be a discussion.

"I'm glad to give my love to you. I know you feel the way I do. Anything you want, you got it."

I'm not even sure if he's truly aware that I'm sitting right next him now. His whole world is in his arms, her eyes finally shut, a tiny smile gracing her perfect little lips with equally tiny dimples in her peach-fuzz soft cheeks. She looks startlingly like her father, though I've read that most babies do—it was to protect the woman and child in an evolutionary way so that the father would know the kid was his and not go all caveman and kill everyone in sight. She may change as she grows older, but her smile is always going to be her father's.

"Anything you need, you got it. Anything at all, you got it."

I feel tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, and I don't bother to blame it on anything other than the fact that I married the best guy in the world who turns out to be more perfect by the day. I don't know how many fathers do this sort of thing with their kids—it could be all of them—and it doesn't really matter. Josh does it with our kid and that's the only thing that's important.

"Anything you want, anything you need, anything at all, baby, you got it."

He falls silent but continues rocking slowly, making sure that she's out for good. A few minutes later he looks up at me and grins, all of his teeth gleaming in the low light of the room. "Normally, I'd kill anyone who filmed me while singing like that. It's a good thing I love my girls so much."

"We think you're all right, too," I answer teasingly. He's so much more than all right, not that he doesn't know it. I stand up from my perch on the stool, keeping the camera focused on the baby's face. She's completely out and wholly unaware of the world around her. If we're lucky, this will last for another two hours. She likes to wake us up a lot during the night, sometimes I think for the pure joy of seeing us rush to her side. If she weren't so cute, I don't think either of us would put up with it.

Eventually, I close the screen on the camera, barely glancing over my shoulder as I set it on the bureau that holds a wardrobe larger than mine and Josh's put together. I slide my arms around his shoulders, leaning against his side as I rest my cheek on top of his more out-of-control-than-normal hair. All I can do is stare at her perfect little face. I cannot fathom how the two of us made something so flawless. I don't deserve her, but I'm going to do my best to do right by her as long as there's breath in my body.

"This was a good idea, you know, recording her life for posterity." He keeps his voice low, trying not to disturb her from her well-earned sleep. "There's so much of my childhood that's only in memory, you know? I mean, I have some pictures, but they're blurry and faded. We didn't have all this footage, like we do with her."

"That's because the technology didn't exist, hon."

"Ouch," he answers, chuckling a little to show that he doesn't take offense. He's not young now—he wasn't even young when I met him—and we definitely started this whole parenting journey late in life. It can be hard not to tease him about it at times, though I think his age is what would convince him to be the stay-at-home parent. Not because our regular work is too much for him or anything, but because he sometimes feels like he's running down time on an hourglass, all of it rushing by too quickly, and he doesn't want to risk missing her life.

"Didn't they document your adolescence with cave paintings?"

"You're a real riot tonight, Donna. I appreciate all the emotional support I get from you."

"It's one of my better qualities, wouldn't you agree?" I answer, grabbing his arm as I feel him try to stand up. He shuffles the few feet over to her crib, putting her down as if she's made of porcelain. We stand guard over her, ostensibly watching to make sure she stays asleep, but we both know that we just like to look at her. Neither of us ever seems to want to stop.

His arm wraps around my shoulders and pulls me closer. I feel his lips press against my temple just before he sighs. I don't say anything. I don't need to.

"She's starting to look more like you," he says softly, a touch of sadness in his voice. I don't think it's that his ego's gone so rampant that he wants his progeny to look like him forever, but I can understand where he's coming from. She's growing and changing, and it's hard as hell.

"I don't think so," I answer truthfully. "She has your eyes, and your smile, and your cute little chin."

He presses another kiss my head, his arm tightening around me, letting me know that he appreciates what I'm trying to do.

"Plus, she has your hairline."

"I hate you so much."

I stifle a laugh and turn into him, lifting myself up just a bit to press my lips to his. "I love you."

"If this is love…" He shakes his head, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I grin in response and grab his chin, pulling his mouth to mine for another quick kiss.

"We should go back to bed while we can," I tell him, looking down at the baby again. "Who knows how long we have before the next round."

"You're right. I know you're right," he answers, though he makes no move to leave the edge of her crib.

I force myself away and grab his hand, giving it a gentle tug until he starts moving. "C'mon, old guy. Looks like your forgot your walker again."

He reaches out and swats at my ass, and I jump a little as we make it out into the hallway. "Yeah, well, you just watch yourself, or this old guy'll knock you up again."

"Promises, promises," I tell him over my shoulder. I feel a tug on my arm and realize he's come to a complete stop, staring at me open-mouthed in the dim lighting.

"Seriously?" he asks, a look that is somehow filled with equal parts wonder and horror on his face. "I mean, seriously?"

I pull at his hand again, forcing him to follow me into our bedroom. "Not tonight." Definitely not tonight. The sun'll be up before we know it, and we'll be lucky if our daughter doesn't wake us up before that. I really feel like I want sleep more than anything in the world, including sex with Josh, which is saying something.

"Okay, but, yeah?"

I turn and wrap my arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss him again, and his hands immediately go to my hips, keeping me close. A moment later, I pull back and grin at him so hard that my cheeks ache. "Yeah. Of course, yeah."

Of course, yeah.

* * *

A/N...So, yeah. This happened. Truthfully, I've only watched The West Wing once through. I didn't watch it originally, which I think is a good thing because I would have fangirled too hard and I had enough things I fangirled over at that point. It would have been too much. Anyhoo, since reaching the end of the series, I stopped fighting my need for more Josh and Donna and delved into the world of TWW fanfiction (which is where I've been, instead of reading other stuff or writing other stuff). This song came up while I was driving last night and, since my brain is filled with all things J/D right now, this little moment popped into my head. I considered trying to prompt someone with it on Tumblr, but then I thought, eff it. I'll write it. So, I'm sure the voices are off a little, because I don't know the characters as well, but they're snarky and sarcastic, and these are things that I am as well, so hopefully there's something in this that feels right.

Also, interestingly, I've wanted to use this song somehow in a story (and I tried really hard to stay away from standard song-fic with this) for about…well, I won't say how many years, but it's been a while. I also know that this bears a lot of resemblance to an ER fic I wrote a million years ago, but that really wasn't my intent. It's not a copy of that; I haven't even reread that story in years.

If anyone is so inclined to leave a review, I would greatly appreciate it. If not, no worries, I shall take your silence as acceptance. I don't know that I'll be writing more J/D fic, but at least I got this out of my system (that last time I said that, I wrote several dozen stories for Friends, so it could be famous last words).

The song is You Got It by Roy Orbison.


End file.
